LAST MARCH, St. Anthony Messenger asked our readers to submit
brief, personal reflections on the
Eucharist. Over several weeks, we
received dozens of heartfelt and
moving testimonies.

For some, the Eucharist can calm a worried
heart, mend a relationship, welcome
new sheep to the flock and reunite
those who have drifted. For others,
the Eucharist simply reinforces their
love for Jesus.

Each reflection was vastly different
from the others, but a common theme
could be found: Throughout life’s odd
twists and turns, through illness and tragedy,
the Eucharist provides refuge for the weary,
sustenance for the hungry and warmth for
those left frozen by hardship.

I have always believed in the Real Presence of
Jesus Christ in the Eucharist. I never thought
to question whether that was true or not—it
just was!

Once a month I bring the Eucharist to a
long-term care facility. On this particular Sunday,
I went to see Ted, one of the residents, last.
As I entered the room, he greeted me but there
was something different.

As we began the service, Ted’s eyes never
left my face. As I read the Gospel, I looked up
and it was as if he could see into the depths of
my being. As we held hands and said the Lord’s
Prayer, his eyes still on me, I felt a
warmth go through me that I am
unable to describe.

A little later as I elevated the host
and began the words, “This is the
Lamb of God,” it was as if he could
see into my very heart. As he
responded with, “Lord, I am not worthy
to receive you...,” tears ran down my face, as
I became aware of the privilege I had been
granted. Beyond a doubt, I held the Body of
Christ in my hands.

I couldn’t get pregnant after my second daughter
so, after much deliberation with my husband,
we adopted a three-year-old boy. He
needed a lot of attention and therapy, which
kept me occupied along with my other responsibilities.

Fifteen years after my last delivery, I got
pregnant again. My husband and I were elated
and thanked God for this miracle. But after
four months, I had a miscarriage. I wasn’t prepared for the depression that engulfed
me. I prayed and fought with God.
Why? Why now?

I was 39 years old. I had a daughter
in her sophomore year of high school
and a seven-year-old son with Attention
Deficit Disorder, and I was finishing
my M.A. in religious education. I
thought I felt complete. Why all of a
sudden did I feel this big hole and void
inside me?

Months later, during a Mass, I prayed
to God: “Please, help me!” At the moment
of Communion, God answered
me. Emotionally and physically, I felt
a heavy burden lifting from me. Faith
and joy replaced it.

After 16 years, I have had great losses,
my son and my father among them.
Even so, that joy and faith in God and
in the Eucharist is unaltered.

My wife, Elizabeth, a eucharistic minister,
had been urging me for years to
become one myself. But I kept refusing,
saying that I was not worthy and that
I was too afraid. Week in and week out,
my wife sat in the front pews with the
other eucharistic ministers while I sat
alone in the back pew.

On one particular Sunday the congregation
was singing the words, “Here I
am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?” Then it struck
me: Was God calling me to be a
eucharistic minister? All the following
week I considered becoming one but I
kept dismissing the idea, saying that I
was still too afraid.

The following Sunday, about midway
through the Mass the congregation
was once again singing, but this time
the hymn was “Be Not Afraid.” I
thought this was more than coincidence.
The Lord was indeed calling me
to be a eucharistic minister. That week
I became one, and I have been one for
the past eight years.

Over 50 years ago, I was molested by a
priest in my church school hall while
a movie was playing. I sat frozen and
terrified. The violation was tucked away
and rarely looked at. My Catholic faith
survived those years and I remained
faithful to the Church.

The last three or four years have been
difficult ones. I have experienced much
pain, anger and sadness. Therapy, spiritual
direction, prayer, a supportive
family, good friends and, most importantly,
the daily reception of the Holy
Eucharist have helped in the healing
process.

One year ago while I was on retreat,
nocturnal adoration was offered and I
signed up for an hour. The chapel was
in darkness except for the candles and
a small lamp on the altar directed on
the monstrance. It was so peaceful and
serene.

That night I said to Jesus, “Well, here
I am, Lord. You know what is in my
mind and heart. I am going to be still
and listen to your message tonight.” In
a matter of minutes, I heard these words
softly spoken, “I was with you.” The
tears flowed for the hour as I continued
to hear: “I was with you.”

The Eucharist is a nourishing gift to
us and spending time with Jesus in
adoration is our gift of love in return.

We never want to hear doctors say that
our loved ones who are ill have only so
much time or there is nothing more
they can do. There is indeed a lot that
everyone can do—pray and receive Jesus
in the Eucharist.

The past two years have been times
of much prayer, pain, despair and hope
for our family. Our daughter, Kerry, has
undergone much suffering as a result of
kidney cancer surgery, with the complications
of liver tumors, painful shingles
and more.

As a eucharistic minister for our
parish, I avail myself of the opportunity
to administer the Eucharist to her—
each time begging Jesus to heal her
and to be with her and that she may
know his saving presence each day.
Words cannot express my feeling when
Kerry thanks me for bringing Jesus to
her.

Before I became a Catholic, I went to
Mass for the first time and I loved it!
Christ was the center of the service.
When it was time for Communion, I
could sense something very important
was happening.

Of course, I knew nothing about
transubstantiation, but I sensed what
was happening was more than just
praying over bread and wine. I could
feel Christ’s presence. Looking at the
bread held high in the hands of the
priest, I wanted it so badly. I did not
know where or how, but I knew Jesus
was present.

After Mass, I kept thinking, What if
I die today? I have always believed that,
when I die, I will open my eyes and see
Jesus. Now more than ever, I wanted to
take part in the Eucharist. So I became
a Catholic.

Jail: Not exactly a place that one would
think synonymous with Eucharist, but
just the opposite is true. The power of
the Eucharist—especially if a prisoner
can receive it at Mass—counteracts all
the negativity one finds in prison.

If you do something wrong in prison,
you go to “The Box” and you are
deprived of your “freedoms.” (“The
Box” is like being in the movie The
Snake Pit.) But the one freedom you
cannot be deprived of, by law, is the
Eucharist.

I look forward to each Saturday
night, seeing the chaplain coming to
my cell and staying a few minutes. We
read the Gospel and then I receive the
Eucharist. As hateful as people can be
in prison—some of it directed toward
me—they are quiet during those five
minutes.

For those five minutes each week, I
experience the power of the Eucharist
and its peace. It fortifies me and fills a
large void left by the loss of family and
friends.

The first Holy Eucharist I received was
in 1960 at the tender age of six. That
tiny wafer—Our Lord’s body—seemed
vaguely moist as I reflect back on that
experience. Although too young to
understand fully the preciousness of
that gift, it nonetheless made an impact
on me.

I remember Sunday afternoons after
having been to church, taking a piece
of white bread and pressing it flat with
my hand. I’d then take a tiny glass and,
by pressing the rim of it into the bread,
I would produce a host-like circle so I
could pretend to give myself Holy Communion.
I’ve often wondered how
many other little boys and girls acted
similarly.

I’m very happy to have had the
opportunity to receive Our Lord in
those tender years of life, and I am happier
still that, with the passing of time,
comes a deeper understanding of that
sacred mystery.

My previous religion had failed to
satisfy my need for a deeper faith experience.
But I never considered other
churches until my daughter married a
devout Catholic and converted to
Catholicism. I often went to Mass with
them and was gradually awakened to
the beauty and holiness of the Catholic
faith.

One Saturday during Mass, I heard
the familiar words of the consecration
in a new way. When the priest said, “This is my body...” and “This is the cup
of my blood...,” I felt as if lightning
had struck me. For the first time, I realized
that Jesus had said, “is my body”
and “is the cup of my blood,” not “represents”
as I had been taught.

That epiphany haunted me. I felt so
deprived every time I heard a priest
say, “This is the Lamb of God who takes
away the sins of the world. Happy are
those who are called to his supper.”

My yearning was satisfied when I
was confirmed in the Catholic Church
and received my first Holy Communion,
our Lord’s real presence.

For the past two years, my friend Ruth
and I have led a weekly Communion
service at the Sarah Jane Living Center,
a residence for patients with Alzheimer’s
disease.

Life for our friends there has little real
meaning, but they do recall the prayers
they learned so many years ago. We
distribute to those who are capable of
receiving. This is an experience like no
other.

The activities director brings us
together and we sit in a circle. As we
begin, Scripture is read and familiar
prayers are recited. Even though the
residents are unaware of many things,
they respond word for word to the
prayers. The roots of their faith are
deep.

“Rose, the Body of Christ,” I say.
“Amen,” she says. I turn to another
patient. “The Body of Christ, Nell.”
She responds, “Thank you.” I move
on to Ed, Loretta, Kathryn, Helen and
the others. Each reverently receives
the host with a grateful look and a
smile.

As the service comes to an end with
our final prayer, there is a peaceful
hush in the room, a stillness we are
reluctant to break. Truly Jesus is present
among us! And we leave the Center
with handshakes and farewells, knowing
that, perhaps for some, we have
brought Viaticum, their last Holy Communion.